


Willing Suspension of Disbelief

by Jorelys



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jorelys/pseuds/Jorelys
Summary: "This man appears throughout History, this is impossible!" Sherlock shouted, jumping out of his chair, his face distorted into a hideous grimace, his hands flying in the air. "Impossible, impossible, impossible..." 
Ficlet based on two gifsets by Doomslock.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wholock AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/241798) by Doomslock. 



> This ficlet is inspired by these two gifsets by Doomslock : http://doomslock.tumblr.com/post/39767643784 and http://doomslock.tumblr.com/post/25787049266 ! Thank you very much for allowing me to post this fic on here!

"This man appears throughout History, this is impossible!" Sherlock shouted, jumping out of his chair, his face distorted into a hideous grimace, his hands flying in the air. "Impossible, impossible, impossible," he kept mumbling between clenched teeth as he pushed everything that was on the living room table onto the floor with short, frantic gestures.  
He was heading for the bookcase, jumping bare-footed from one chair to the other as not to walk over the mess that was now the floor, when John walked into the room, a warm cup of tea in his hands.  
"Is everything alright?" he asked after a few seconds, his eyes following Sherlock's movements.  
Sherlock answered with a frustrated growl. He was now grabbing handful of books by their spines and letting them fall on the chairs, the floor, one another, without even looking at them. After a while, he jumped to the floor and started looking at the books' titles, throwing them over his shoulder when he decided they weren't the one he was looking for.  
John, determined not to have his mood crushed by his lunatic best friend, pushed aside the several books that somehow ended up on his chair, and sat. He watched Sherlock silently, sipping his tea once in a while and blinking curiously.  
"What are you looking for, exactly?"  
"The Doctor," Sherlock muttered, his hands a tornado in the calm sea of books.  
"Who is the doctor? Are you sick? Do I need to remind you that I am—"  
"Don't be stupid, John," and before he could react to that, Sherlock got on his feet, "there it is!"  
He browsed through the pages, and then gave the book to John, pointing at a drawing representing a man with a thin face, sharp eyes and messy hair, and an outrageously rich woman.  
"Eighteenth-century France," he said, disappearing from John's field of vision.  
John put his tea on the table and read the caption to himself, "Madame de Pompadour and her alleged lover, known as "The Doctor"."  
"Yes, and?" he asked.  
When he raised his head, he realized Sherlock was fumbling through a pile of newspapers that had been standing in the corner of the room since before he moved into 221b. Cutting his thoughts short, Sherlock came back towards him and threw a newspaper onto his lap.  
"Ancient Rome, Pompeii."  
An article about the eruption of Mount Vesuvius and new-found remains was illustrated by pictures of different drawings, one of which depicted a man curiously similar to the one from the previous drawing.  
"They're just look-alike, Sherlock. It is impossible for them to be the sam—"  
"Twentieth-century England," Sherlock said, handing him a piece of paper. "One of Agatha Christie's letters to her husband, describing a nameless doctor, and the photo that goes with it," and before John could react, Sherlock turned his attention to the TV, "London, 2012."  
A report about the previous Olympic Games was on, and the man who had apparently lit the Olympic Flame was being interviewed. No name mentioned, the caption simply read: "The Doctor".  
"Maybe they are from the same family," John said, taking his cup of tea back into his hands and slowly blowing on it.  
"Nobody looks that similar, John. They are identical! Same facial feat—"  
"It's just drawings, words and photos, Sherlock! Just go to sleep already," John breathed out before standing up and leaving the room. 

*

A few months later, Sherlock was looking out the window, playing his violin, when he heard an unusual noise coming from the street. He froze and listened carefully. Soon enough, the noise faded, and all he could see was a couple approaching the door of 221B Baker Street. He heard the woman say: "Doctor, it looks like modern London to me, why did—", and he was rushing past John, running down the stairs and was out in the street within seconds, coming face to face with the young couple. John followed him outside and stood there quietly, trying to process what was happening, while they all looked at each other perplexed and confused.  
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, eventually.  
"Uh," the man said, and John finally recognized him. "I'm the Doctor, and this is Rose Tyler," he paused for a second there, not sure what to do next. "And you are…?"  
"Sherlock Holmes, and this is John Watson," Sherlock snapped, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the man's coat.  
The Doctor almost choked, "Sorry, what?"  
"Oh my god," said the girl, grabbing the man's sleeve and hiding her smile behind her free hand with great difficulty.  
Both of them were grinning from ear to ear now and John wondered if they had seen God, or something.


End file.
